


Two Types of People

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind!Dave, M/M, albino!Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to his father’s job, John Egbert moved away from his birthplace in Texas at the age of seven. He left behind his old home, his old life, and his old school; and, he quickly adapted to his new east coast home. What he never quite adjusted to, however, was the fact that he, in the process of moving, had left behind a certain person and childhood friend by the name of Dave Strider.</p><p>Interestingly enough, an odd busker has started appearing on John’s daily route home from school. He plays guitar pretty well, occasionally throws out a few comments; and, more importantly, happens to remind John of a friend, whom he believed had forgotten him long ago… [a blind!Dave/John fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I need to stop writing. Someone take the computer from me.
> 
> Well this one took an unexpected turn. I guess there's still that whole John and the Gatsby complex thing going on, but it's definitely now more about Dave going after John and John being a dickhead. Yeah, I seriously don't know how I ended up twisting it around this much; but, hey, it got me writing it again, so that's a plus (I think). Yay?

_“Without you,_   
_There’d be no sun in my sky._   
_There’d be no love in my life.._   
_There’d be no world left for me…”_

The familiar song lyrics hit your emotions with the comparable physical impact of a brick being forced against your skull. You spin about and, to your slight surprise, find the source of the music to be the odd blonde busker who’s been showing up on your route home for the past few months.

He doesn’t seem to notice as you approach. In fact, he doesn’t acknowledge that you–or, anyone, really–happen to be watching him until you, dropping a few coins into his guitar case, create a series of quiet clanging noises. Upon hearing the sound, the nearly opaque Ray-Ban sunglasses he wears turn towards you. A subdued half-smile spreads across his usually passive features. At the same time, he offers you a muttered, barely audible thanks.

“You’re welcome,” you reply casually, picking up your bag and preparing to leave.

As you turn to depart, however, a realisation seems to dawn upon the busker. His sunglasses and, at least by your assumption, his gaze snap upwards to meet your receding figure. “Wait!” he calls after you. His voice is soft, a bit hoarse, and gifted with a thick, undoubtedly Texan, accent. “I… Your voice…”

“Hm?” You perform a somewhat sloppy about-face . “Me?”

“No, I’m talking to my partially digested lunch. Yeah, you! I know your voice. Or, at least, I think I know your voice. It’s kinda’ familiar…” he replies as he fumbles about with his guitar. His clumsy handling of the acoustic instrument contrasts dramatically against the ease and grace with which he had just been playing, inciting a fair amount of curiosity from you.

You watch as he shoves the guitar back into its case, only to spend the next minute or so awkwardly grappling with the three brass clamps, which, by all outward appearance and sensible logic, hold the case closed. Two minutes pass before he manages to even begin working on the third clamp and, by this point, you’re getting to be genuinely concerned. “You okay…?”

“What?” he grumbles as he manages to lock the last clamp closed. “Yeah… I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though…” For a moment, his shade-obscured-gaze remains pointed towards you; then, without warning, he departs.

He casually wanders to the edge of the sidewalk; sensibly looks both ways; and, nonsensically proceeds to step into the street as a speeding minivan approaches. The van itself is a fair distance away from the busker when he steps onto the street; but, at his leisurely pace, you figure that he has a fairly good chance of wandering straight into a messy encounter with said vehicle.

And you, for a reason inexplicable and unknown even to yourself, decide to intervene. You run to him as he steps a bit over the halfway mark. The minivan, meanwhile, continues to speed down its path. (A quick glance reveals the driver to be a distracted ‘soccer dad’ trying to simultaneously drive and check his email.) By now, he seems to have recognised the danger. He starts to back out of the car’s path; but, before he can do much of anything, you take a firm hold of the back of his red sport coat. You pull him roughly across the street, dodging a motorcycle as you do so, and manage to trip over the sidewalk ledge as you return to safety.

Both you and him end up sprawled out on the ground. A soft clattering noise from his general direction draws your attention to him. You quickly identify the source of the sound to be his shades; and, instinctively, you pick them up.

“These are yours, aren’t they?”

He turns towards you, eyes cast downward. “Yeah… Thanks… Sorry for that shit…”

For some reason, you raise your gaze from the patch of sidewalk you’ve been staring at and manage to catch a fleeting glimpse of the most alien and, yet, somehow familiar, eyes you’ve ever seen. A milky white film appears to cover both the pupil and iris of each eye, making them seem as if they’re entirely white. Yet, beneath that film, you think you can faintly make out a pair of red, out of focus, bloodshot eyes.

Red eyes… You’ve only ever known one person to have legitimately red eyes… That kid–your best friend–the best friend you’d left behind in Texas…

No! Of course not! This drop-out busker cannot be–is not–Dave. There’s no way… And, you’d only had a brief glimpse at his eyes. Surely, you were just imagining it. You’d misperceived something…

“That’s fine… Just try and watch out in the future, okay? I’m sure your folks wouldn’t be too happy about hearing that you’ve been flattened out by a rogue speeder…” you reply quietly.

He dons his shades and frowns. “I’m alone,” he shrugs. “I mean… I had Bro, but he died a year or so back… A bit funny, really… Kinda’ got offed by a motorcycle accident… I guess Striders just don’t have very much luck when it comes to being on the road.”

Strider…? Did he just say, or, technically, imply that his last name was Strider? No… It’s a coincidence. Strider is probably a fairly common name. Aside from that, the Dave you remember had enough friends back in Texas. He had his admittedly badass brother… He had a penthouse apartment and seemingly limitless wealth to his name. This ragged, seemingly homeless teen in front of you cannot be and, you reassure yourself, is not him…

“That kind of sucks…” you respond, still grappling with the assuredly ridiculous notions floating about in your mind.

“Not really… I can do whatever the fuck I feel like doing. It’s pretty fun for the most part.”

At this statement, you roll your eyes. “Yeah, things like playing songs from Nicholas Cage movies, and getting your ass run over by motorists.”

He returns your comment with a sheepish half-smile. “Sorry about that, dude. Didn’t see the car…”

“It was a bright red minivan! I doubt it could be any more obvious unless you stuck a giant neon sign to it!” You counter his statement with your own, rather confused and uncharacteristically sarcastic, reply.

In return, he once again shrugs. “Well… I can’t see that well… Okay, to be honest… I can barely see… So, really, sticking neon signs to cars would probably help a bit.”

“Oh…” You can feel your cheeks heating to an embarrassed blush. “Sorry… I didn’t realise…”

You begin to speak but, before you can finish your apology, he cuts in. “No, it’s fine. It’s been that way for a while. It’s nothing but a minor annoyance. Kinda’ like trying to tie your shoes when you’ve got one of those stupid thick band-aids on, you know?”

“Yeah, but–”

At this point, a sincere frown appears on his pale face. “You don’t need to apologise. Most people don’t know it unless they get a VIP pass to a legit look at my screwed up eyes. Keep going on with your stupid apology after I shut up, and I will personally and forcefully introduce my guitar case to the side of your face–even if you _do_ sound like John. Got it?”

After getting over the shock of his unanticipated reaction, you nod. “Yeah… Got it…” It is as you are in the process of responding that you’re hit by the realisation of what he’d just said… “Did you say that I remind you of someone named John?”

He lowers his guitar case a bit and turns so that his shades are facing you. “Yeah… John Egbert–or, as I preferred calling him, John Egdork… He was a friend of mine when I was a kid, but his dad had to get promoted and he moved away.”

No…

This is completely preposterous.

This is stupid.

This isn’t happening…

For your entire life, your image of Dave endured as the brilliant best friend you’d left in Texas. You’ve believed for all these years that Dave still had the respect of all the kids in his and your class; that he had gone on to graduate top of his class. You’ve though for so long that he, the kid intelligent enough to be promoted from first to second grade in the first week of school, was probably off at college now, having long since forgotten you in his academic success. You’ve built him up to be so much; and, to be honest, this is sending all of it crashing down. In somewhat nerdy literature terms, you feel like Gatsby realising that Daisy isn’t as perfect as he’d once believed. Hell, you might as well _be_ Gatsby right now.

“Dave…?” Just saying the name destroys another section of the pedestal you’ve had Dave set up on for so long.

“Yeah… How do you know my… John!?” Despite the wide, excited grin on his face, your heart sinks further. Another columnar support for the pedestal is knocked away. “Is it really you!?”

Show your feelings… That’s what Dad has always taught you; it’s the motto you’ve lived by your whole life. But, now, you’re going against it. Now is one of those rare times that you find yourself desperately scrambling to hide your true feelings; one of those times where you force yourself to smile, regardless of if he can see it or not, and nod. “Yeah! I can’t believe we finally managed to find each other after all this time!”

Dave remains blithely unaware of your forced happiness, seemingly riding on the fumes of nostalgic euphoria. “Me either, dude. Hey… I raked in a bit of money today, so why don’t we go swing by Starbucks or something? We can talk about shit and just hang out like old times.”

“I…” You sigh and, closing your eyes, release a nervous sigh. Show your feelings… Saying yes will only disappoint him further once he realises that you’ve lost interest in him as a companion. Dad has never given you bad advice before. “No… I’m sorry, Dave. We can’t. You’ve changed; I’ve changed. It’s stupid to try and force things to be like they were.”

He looks at you with a frown that, somehow, manages to break through your emotional defences. “I… I guess you’re right…” he mumbles dejectedly. You can tell he’s trying to force himself to comply with his brother’s idiotic “no emotions” policy; and, somehow, that breaks your already hesitant will even further. “I’m sorry… It was a stupid idea. You’re still in school… I’m sure you’ve got things to do…”

“Maybe later?” No! Dammit! You didn’t mean to say that…

As you open your mouth to counter your former statement, however, you realise it’s too late. A poorly stifled smile is spread across his face… “That’d be great! I don’t do much, so… Um… My phone number’s…” He reaches into his pocket, pulls forth a pad of paper, and hastily scribbles down his contact information. “I try to save my minutes for emergencies and shit, so text me. I’ll get it.” After handing you the paper, he turns and walks off, with a good deal of spring added to his formerly sluggish step…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well lookit that! I actually decided to come back to this!  
> Comments and feedback welcome. I suck at checking over things so, if you see any typos, feel free to point them out via my tumblr or comments or whatever.

Maybe… _Maybe_ you can sneak around him today.

You mean, he’s practically blind. He admitted it himself, right? You can totally get around this. All you have to do is not draw any—

“Hey! John!”

Dammit.

You turn to face him, forcing yourself to at least _sound_ cheerful. “Yeah?”

“I thought you’d never show up again, dude. What’s taken you so long? Didn’t school let out an hour ago?” His face is lit up by a stupid grin, his head tilted a bit to the side like a curious dog’s.

“…It did,” you reply nervously. All right, so you’re not exactly fond of getting to know this guy as much as you used to be. Honestly, you could care less about him; but, he’s so excited. He’s alone in a city he’s basically wandered into and… Well… You can’t just tell him that you were hanging back in the hopes that he’d leave before you got here. “I had a club… meeting…”

“Okay then. You got anything planned for today? Because, I mean, you _did_ say that we could—”

“No, I can’t. I’m busy,” you abruptly cut him off, not wanting to hear any more of what he’s saying.

It is at this point that you plan to walk away and ignore him—to not look back. You plan. You fail. You end up seeing him, noticing the look of dejected disappointment on his face.

Still, what does he mean to you? He’s just some person you knew as a kid. You knew lots of people, and you haven’t seen most of them since then. If you did, you’d probably just give them a little wave; you woudn’t wait outside of their goddamn school for them.

He’s a creep. He’s a stalker. All he does is wait for you to show up every day. Really, if you hadn’t pulled him out of traffic, you probably wouldn’t even be putting up with this shit right now. But, still, he’s a person. He’s someone who, as far as you remember, was your friend.

You remember how, as a kid, he’d always go on and on about how he’d grow up to be a famous rapper or artist. He used to tell glorfying stories of his brother, often mentioning how he wanted to be just like him when he matured…

“I— I guess I could stay and talk, though…”

No! Dammit! _Again!?_  Why did you say that. You open your mouth to take it back, only to silence yourself upon seeing the wide grin spreading across his face. Well, at least you didn’t agree to take him out for coffee.

“Really? Well, if you’re so busy, I wouldn’t mind walking with you back to your place,” Dave responds enthusiastically.

“No, I’m fine just staying here. I mean, you’d have to find your way back afterwards, so that’s probably not the best idea…” you reply quickly, knowing fully that Dave had planned on meeting your dad again. You, of course, know where that would lead. Your dad would get all sentimental and, more than likely, he’d just let this creep—this random drop-out, who just so happens to stink of trash and accumulated filth—into your house.

“That’s true, dude. I didn’t think of that. So, I guess we might as well talk about something before you dash off to do all your shit, right?”

“I guess so,” you sigh, discretely checking your watch.

It’s almost five. By the time you get home, it’ll be five thirty or six. By the time you’re done homework and all that other necessary shit, it’ll be well past seven. You’re wasting your valuable time here, but you don’t have the gall to leave him.

“You guess so?” he replies, raising a brow.

“I mean, honestly, Dave, I’ve got things to do and—”

“I did, too, you know…” he cuts you off in an offsettingly mild manner.

You glance at him, noting the smirk playing at his lips. “And by that you mean…?”

“Nothing,” he replies cooly. “If you’re busy, then go. I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“I _can’t wait_ until then,” you reply with a hint of biting sarcasm.

At this point, you eagerly take your chance to escape. You turn and, without so much as a nod of farewell, begin to rush down the sidewalk. You’re not taking the chance of getting caught by him again. You’ve finally gotten him to let you go… At least, you've gotten him to do so for now.

You still realise, of course, that you’re going to have to find some way to put him off so much that he finally stops harassing you. "Have to"… Those are the key words. You don’t _need_ to yet. Not yet. You will later; but, not now…

* * *

By the time you get home, however, you find that, somehow, a tiny part of you regrets leaving him there. A tiny, almost microscopic, bit of you recognises that you’re acting rather dickishly towards your former friend. However, that miniscule part of you just so happens to be obnoxiously loud.

Not only is it loud, but, as you quickly find out, it only gets louder. With each passing hour, its volume increases. It builds and builds, until, by the time you crawl into bed, it’s a deafening roar. It’s your overbearing conscience. It’s what suddenly reminds you of his words, as you lie in your bed, staring blankly at your plain white ceiling fan.

_I did, too…_

What did he mean by that?

Hell, what was the context of it all?

Oh… Yeah… You were talking about being busy…

Still, what could he—the drop-out bouncer without so much as a cardboard box to sleep in—have been busy with? What could have possibly been…

No… Wait…

He said he _did_. He was referring to the past.

He was referring to the day that you, John Egbert, entered public school.

You still remember that day clearly. You can still close your eyes and picture the lush green grass of the schoolyard—recall the slightly dirty bricks of the schoolhouse. The sound of pre-formed cliques of kids playing basketball on the playground is still as fresh in your mind as if it had all happened only minutes before.

You were lonely. You didn’t know anyone. You couldn’t recognise any faces.

You tried to make friends. You really, really tried. No matter what you said, though, they all seemed to turn away. No one seemed to so much as care that you existed. All of them had their own groups of friends, after all. They’d all been to pre-school together. You, though… You hadn’t. Up until then, your dad stayed home to take care of you.

You ended up sitting alone at lunch, on the verge of tears. Then, he showed up. You remember that his stupid shades, which, at the time, were a bit too large for his head, kept sliding down his nose. His stupid grin and pure white hair caught your attention and, without you even having to ask, he approached.

He asked if you had anyone else to eat with.

You told him you were alone.

He smiled, shrugged, and set his lunch tray on the table. Without a moment of hesitation, he sat down beside you.

Dave…

He was the only person who bothered to taking the time to get to know you then and, now, you’re not allowing yourself to do the same for him.

He could have been eating with his friends—with Karkat and Terezi and Rose… and he ate with you…

_No!_

You’re not falling for this!

He’s not the same kid you met in first grade! He’s a snide, cheeky _bastard_. He’s a manipulative stalker.

No.

You’re not about to let him win. You're not  _going_ to let him win.

You shove the memories to the darkest depths of your mind and, as forcefully as you can, you lock them away. Then, while you still ride upon the fumes of artificial justification, you fall into an uneventful slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there's a reason for this whole OOC John thing. And I promise to right this by the end of this thing. (If I even get around to doing that...)

Okay, so you don’t completely hate the guy.

You don’t wish death upon him or hope that he gets hit by a car or anything.

Really, you just want him to leave you alone. He’s one of the few remnants of your past that still manages to cling to you. You’re flypaper, and he’s the stupid-as-hell insect stuck to you. He’s a buzzing annoyance, though little more than a mild irritant.

Still, he seems to mean well. And, you have to admit, he’s abnormally talented when it comes to music… At the same time, you can’t help but wonder how he does it. No, not just the music. You wonder more. You wonder how has he managed to remember you all this time. Why is he still so attached to you? What happened between the time you left him alone and the point at which he popped up on that side-walk?

 _Clang_.

You watch as he dumps his collection of coins and assorted paper bills onto the counter of the grocery nearest his usual spot.

“How much was it?” he mutters, absent-mindedly fiddling about with the currency as he waits for the answer.

“Thirty five dollars and twenty three cents,” the cashier responds irritably. “Now, can you just pay already? You’re holding up the line.”

“Yeah, sorry about that…” mutters a slightly flustered Dave. “I’m going as fast as I can, just…” His voice trails off near the end of his statement, and his concentrations turn to handling the transaction. With a remarkable amount of speed and strangely fascinating ease, he arranges his coins in a relatively neat pile. He then manages to sort through an array of oddly-folded bills. Once he’s sure he has the right amount, he proceeds to shove the entire pile—coins and paper alike—towards the cashier. All in all, the process takes about a minute.

From there, the irritable grocer proceeds as normal The money is placed in the register and the small plastic bag is packed and handed off to Dave.

“Next?”

As the line progresses, Dave makes his way towards the door. On his way out, however, he just so happens to brush against you.

He turns, makes a hasty apology, and manages to walk straight into the glass of the partially open automatic door. This show of clumsiness manages to pry a chuckle from, and, consequently, draw his attentions towards, you.

“Oh! John!” The familiar, stupid grin lights up his face again. “I was wondering where you were. I mean, it’s been five days since we ran into each other, right? Five? I think it’s been five…”

“Yeah, it’s been five,” you respond. You forcibly inject a bright, happy tone into your voice; yet, all the while, you mentally kick yourself for letting that chuckle slip out. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m still really busy and, unless you’ve got something you need for me to—”

“Actually, I do.” His response is accompanied by a ghost of a smirk. It’s as if he knows what he’s doing—and, perhaps he does.

Perhaps that’s exactly what he’s going on. Maybe he knows you don’t want him around, and he’s just trying to get under your skin. Maybe he's caught on and, if not to merely spite you, he's persisting in his annoying efforts to regain your friendship. Still, you might as well see what it is he needs, right? You did offer your aid, after all. “Mhm?”

He pulls forth his wallet and, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, continues. “I’ve got a few bills in here that I can’t figure out. Mind folding them for me? It won’t take you five minutes, I promise.”

“You want me to… What?” you mutter.

“Money. Fold it, if you don’t mind. It’s not really that hard; even for you, dude,” he snickers. “Leave singles alone, fold the fives in half lengthwise. Tens get one fold at the right edge, vertically.”

“I— Should you even be doing this in a grocery store?” you stammer.

You start wishing you hadn’t offered your help in the first place. If it weren’t for the laws of politeness, which have been hopelessly embedded into your brain by your father, you wouldn’t have. Now that you have, though, you can’t go back.

That fails to lessen the awkward as hell impact of the entire ordeal, however… You’re _still_  standing in the middle of a crowded grocery store, in front of some guy you knew years ago, being asked to count his money for him. It’s _stil_  halfway embarrassing and halfway depressing. And that’s without taking into account the stares you’re sure you’re attracting.

“Why not? Witnesses are everywhere. If someone takes my goddamn cash they can answer to the goddamn police pretty quick,” Dave shrugs.

“Why not?” you respond incredulously. “Well, I’d rather not have an entire grocery store staring at me.”

Your impulsive retort, much to your surprise, prompts an amused grin and an equally extemporaneous reply. “I’m sure it won’t kill you to be knocked down a few pegs on the confidence ladder, John.”

By now, your frustration has gone from plateauing to rocketing through the roof of sanity. You'd been find before, but he took you over the edge with that snide comment of his.

You find yourself growing increasingly irritated with the smallest, most insignificant things about him. The way that confident, cocky grin spreads across his pale face does nothing but irritate you. His casual nature only serves to infuriate you. Your embarrassment heightens with his every movement you’re near him.

No. You’ve finally become more than “that friend of Dave Strider’s”. You’ve finally made a name for yourself. You can’t have it all crashing down because of this idiot.

“Well, I’m sure it won’t kill you to fold your own money. You’re an adult, after all. You should count your own damn cash,” you respond harshly.

Having said this, you proceed to storm from the building. You don’t bother looking back. You don’t bother listening to Dave’s response. You merely leave.

You leave and begin to hope that you’ll never see that idiot again.


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time since you met him, you find yourself feeling as if you’ve treated him too harshly. You find yourself questioning your motives and ideas.

He is, after all, a former friend. He’s someone who still cares about you, even after all this time. He’s lost everything when he needed help, he came to you. He could have easily gone to Karkat or Jade or whoever; but, he didn’t. He came to _you_.

He trusted you to be there for him, and all you did was throw your accumulated, snobbish confidence in his face. You may as well have just stabbed him in the back. It’d send across the same message, after all.

Well…

You still have his wallet, seeing as you never bothered to give it back…

Maybe there’s still a chance for you to redeem yourself…

What was it that he said?

Keep the singles the same, fives folded like hot dog buns (why the fuck do you still think of it that way, anyhow?) and tens folded along the edges?

Yes. You believe that's what he said to do. You sigh and take the worn-out leather wallet from your back pocket, where you’d absent-mindedly put it only moments after walking away from him. It is at this point that something in the back of your mind forces its way forward. A memory.

A memory of the day that you, John Egbert, had to tell Dave you were moving.

It was the only time you had (and probably _will_ ) ever seen him lose his shit, the only time he’d ever cried in front of you. You’d cried, too; but, you were already worn out by the time you told him. To make up for the whole moving fiasco, though, you promised him a gift. And he promised you one, too.

You had wanted to get him something that he’d be able to use later in life—something more than a toy. After consulting with your dad, you ended up getting him a leather wallet. It cost you about three months of your allowance, but you were hell-bent on purchasing that thing. When you got it, it was shining black—unlike like the seriously faded black one you’re holding.

No, it can’t be the same. That was years ago! Surely, he got rid of it by now. Besides, you’d gotten his name stamped onto it—in faux gold lettering, such as that printed upon the very wallet you’re holding.

He— He’s kept it all this time? Even after so many years, he still has that stupid, overpriced trifold wallet you’d bought him all those years ago…?

No. You make a weak attempt at disregarding the significance of this fact. It’s probably because he couldn’t afford anything else, you reason. He started using it later on and got stuck with it after Bro died. Certainly, that’s why he still has it. Your dismissive, off-the-wall logic blatantly disregards the fact that the leather money carrier is worn out to the point of its front practically falling off. However, it goes without saying that you don’t really care for logical thinking right now.

Casting such frivolous things aside, you begin working. You open the wallet and reach into the section for money, only to pull out a handfull of old letters, crinkled receipts, and a few flattened gum wrappers.

You sort through the ungodly, disorganised mess. To your left, you set out the letters; the money, meanwhile, is set off to the right. It takes you about ten minutes to sort through it all, seeing as you have to open up letters and receipts to make sure there isn’t anything lost within their haphazard folds.

One by one, you count out the total. Five… Six… Sixteen… Seventeen… Twenty seven… It keeps going until it, to your surprise, ends up with a totalling $253.

With the money counted, you proceed to begin folding it. You do as he had instructed—tens folded on the edge, fives folded lengthwise, ones left alone.

About twenty minutes later, you manage to fold your last bill. You sort the money according to its value and stick it back into the pocket before moving onto the notes. The question, now, is what to do with them. Of course, you realise that you shouldn’t read them. They’re personal, after all. Still, it’s a tempting situation. He won’t know if you read them or not…

No. Nope. Nope, nope, no. Hell fucking no. Definitely not.

You might not like him, and you may still harbour some animosity towards him, but you’re not going to invade his privacy for your own curiosity’s benefit. You’ve already brushed him aside and dismissed him in some of the harshest ways you could possibly manage…

Thus, with an accompanying sigh, you simply gather the papers together and stick them in a separate pocket, rearranging them until the wallet closes properly.

By the time you’re finished with this task, it’s nearing your personal bed time. You end up having a bowl of cereal for dinner and, once you’ve cleaned up after yourself, you silently trudge off to bed.

* * *

The following morning, after waking and eating an over-toasted waffle, you begin your short walk to Dave’s usual spot. You assume that he’ll be asleep, seeing as the sun hasn’t even managed to rise. You assume you’ll be able to drop it off and leave it at that. Do a good deed, you figure, and avoid the well-deserved shitstorm of having to actually talk to him.

However, as “luck” would have it, you get the exact opposite. You find him wandering around, absent-mindedly whistling as he searches for raidable trash cans.

No. This was not what you signed up for.

You turn to leave, only to step on a fallen tree branch.

 _Crack!_ The sound makes you flinch as it breaks the early morning silence and, worst of all, draws his attention to you.

In response to this terrible fucking up of your plan, however, you remain silent. Unmoving. Maybe he’ll go away. You hope that much. Maybe, if you stay still and don’t make any noise, he won’t notice you…

No… He’s approaching you. God fucking dammit.

He's approaching you and, when he gets within a yard of you, his head tilts a bit to the side, like a confused dog’s. “You do realise that I know you’re there, right? I ain’t that damned stupid.”

Okay… So, he recognises your presence. Still, maybe if you stay quiet…

“Seriously, if you’re coming to take my money, I don’t have any,” he shrugs.

He’s not giving this up. He won’t stop talking until you at least let him know who you are. Or, at the very least, make your presence’s purpose clear.

Still, you don’t want to talk to him. So, rather than speaking up, you silently pull forth his wallet. You grab his wrist, pull it towards you, and drop the wallet into his hand. Then, you begin your rapid retreat.

You have managed to completely underestimate his speed, however, and the sound of his voice halts your retreat.

“Thanks for giving this thing back, dude…”

Instinctively, you turn to face him. You watch as he quietly shoves the wallet back into his pocket. Then, to your surprise, he walks away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Your name is Dave Strider, and everything you’ve ever believed is a lie.**

You once believed that Bro would always be there for you. After all, he said he would. You believed he never lied. Both beliefs were easily shot down forever ago.

You once believed that everything happened for a reason. That fate, though cruel at times, would always undo the wrongs that had been done. Yet, somehow, fate hasn’t done so for you. Fate’s left you stranded in the middle of a foreign place with no idea of where you are or even how you’re supposed to get by.

Perhaps more importantly, though, is the belief that landed you in all this shit to begin with. You once believed that friends would always be there for you. Friendship was, to you, a kind of lifelong connection. Once you’ve embedded yourself deeply enough in someone’s life, you can’t just leave them. You once believed that John, like Bro, would always be there for you. He’d welcome you back into his life, despite your changes.

You once believed that people were generally good. Evil was an isolated phenomenon. Time was a gentle companion. Now, though, you see that you were wrong.

You were as wrong as you could possibly get.

The world isn’t nice. It’s mean as fuck. So is time. And fate. And former friendship.

Everything is a massive agglomeration of sadistic misfortune…

“This city is so nice. It’s a shame that worthless bums like _him_ ruin the landscape.” The conversation breaks your concentration, providing you needed relief from the thoughs rushing through your mind. Its interruption, which allows you to take in the slowly quieting city and relax a bit. Though you catch the muttered statement, you don’t reply. Pick your battles. You’re not about to waste your energy explaining things to ignorant passerby…

You observe as increasingly fewer cars ramble down the nearby road—as the volume of passerby steadily dwindles down—until you are the only person within a three block radius. By now, you assume it’s at least nine or ten at night. The darkness of night consumes what little sight you have left, leaving the world a collection of nearly indistinguishable black blurs.

Then, you hear it. You hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

The air around you is suddenly filled with the foul scent of tobacco.

A hand grabs you by the back of your jacket, pulls you away from your guitar case, and throws you to the ground. In the process, you hear your shades clattering to the ground. You reach towards them, only to be kicked away.

You hear a foot slamming against the pavement, glass shattering and cracking beneath its forceful downward blow.

_Clang! Ding!_ Someone is roughly tossing about your guitar case, jostling about your few remaining posessions like dead bugs in a jar.

Wood creaks and scrapes against weathered leather, only to come crashing to the ground a minute later. Several parts crack apart at once, while the strings groan under the unanticipated tension. _Ding! Ding!_ They snap, rebounding and lashing against the instrument’s wooden body like whips.

“Well you broke that good, you fucking idiot. I told you we were trying to keep that shit together, dammit! Well, it’s not worth anything now. Keep looking,” snarls an unfamiliar voice.

The case’s clasps are undone once more, and more things come crashing to the ground.

You listen to the sound of your brother’s guitar picks clattering to the ground, only to be carelessly swept away and dropped into the pockets of the looters. To the clamour of a pair of strangers, as they eagerly pocket your posessions. To the whispered inults and derisive comments. To the snickering and condescending vituperation.

You remain sprawled out on the ground, too dazed and confused to do much more than make weak attempts to hold off the blows of your assailant’s fist. A warm substance begins to creep down the side of your face—blood, leaking from your left nostril.

In your left side, you feel the seering pain of a sharp weapon digging into you. A hand roughly turns you over and takes your wallet, claims the money, and throws the empty trifold at your side. You take the opportunity to struggle to your hands and knees.

“What a piece of trash. You have all this money and you don’t bother doing anything with it? You could be doing something productive for society, you know,” chides one of the unfamiliar voices. “On the other hand, I take that back. I don’t want some freak handling anything that comes in contact with me.”

“Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson about being such a worthless bastard,” sneers another voice.

A blunt objects smashes against your side, throwing you back to the ground as it splinters against your ribs.

The sound of a triumphant laugh breaks through the silence of night, and a strong punch in the face sends you into a pained stupor.

* * *

You wake up about five minutes later. The fragments of your guitar are strewn about you, and the shattered remnants of your shades rest about a yard away. You can feel the dried blood stuck to your face—some just beneath your nose, some beneath a stinging gash across your right cheek, and the rest just below a wound in your side.

The world is spinning—or, at least, what little you can see of it is.

Outlined against the dim glow of the streetlamps, you can vaguely see an outline of a person. “That was the most pathetic fight I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” the form grumbles.

The voice is familiar… “John?”

“Yeah. I decided that I may as well try to help. It’s not like it’ll do much good, but I feel like shit leaving you out here after seeing that,” he reluctantly sighs.

You don’t remember much of what happens after this. You recall being dragged to your feet and stumbling along, with most of your weight leaned against John’s shoulder, for some time. Then, you recall entering a spacious apartment. After that, the last thing you can remember is that you fell asleep on John’s sofa.


	6. Chapter 6

Around 5:00AM, you gathered your things and left the apartment (… house… thing). You managed to stumble into one of those twenty-four-hour pharmacies, where, by some stroke of miraculous luck, you happened to scrounge up enough spare change to purchase a folding cane. With your funds depleted and your nerves chafed by the perpetually bored staff, you left the store. You wandered down the sidewalk for an hour or so.

Only then did you decide that you were probably a decent enough distance away from John’s house. After all, you didn’t want to bother him—and you still don’t. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want you around. Why, then, should you pester him further? He has his own problems and, unlike you, he’s worked his way into a nice college and an admittedly spectacular living space.

 _Chrk_. You feel the heat of the flame generated by your lighter. You brush your wrist across your microscopic line of view, noting the point at which it hits a thin, paper-covered roll of tobacco. You bring your other hand up to this spot, wait until the heat intensifies, and extinguish the source flame.

Yes, to make it perfectly clear, you just finished lighting a cigarette.

You’ve smoked since you were eight—when you found a pack of Bro’s cigarettes on the kitchen counter and tried one out for yourself. You know it’s a terrible habit. Lighting the damned thing is a bit of a hassle, too; you’ve burned yourself on more than one occasion. However, the relaxing sensation which follows the igniting of one of the toxic paper rolls is, to you, a reasonable benefit for your efforts. It’s something to keep your mind occupied, at least…

The taste builds in your mouth, and, after a few moments, you blow the bitter smoke out through your nose. Then, you repeat. You take another drag, savour the flavour, and release the toxins back into the air.

Eventually, it begins to smoulder as the flame hits the filter. You drop the cigarette and promptly stomp it out. Then, with your foot still on top of the freshly extinguished cigarette, you light another. Your mind begins to wander off, meandering aimlessly into a land of reminiscent thought.

_When you were five, Bro took you to a routine doctor’s visit. Well, it wasn’t really routine. Actually, it partially was. Okay, the truth is that it just so happened to be your scheduled check-up date when you finally started having enough of a vision problem to warrant Bro’s concern._

_Your vision had always been bad, mostly due to your genetic fuckery, but, until then, it’d just seemed normal. It was part of growing up. You just happened to need new glasses more often. That was, at least, what you and Bro chose to think._

_That particular day, however, you’d noticed something odd. You’d noticed a thin black rim around your visual field. You consulted Bro about it and, for the first time you can remember, he flipped his shit. He rushed you to the doctor’s office, where he stubbornly demanded that you received earlier-than-planned medical attention. Sure enough, his loud protest paid off in the form of some strange tests and an equally odd diagnosis._

_Retinitis Pigmentosa_. You weren’t really sure what it meant then; hell, you still don’t know what it means. All you know about it is what Bro told you—it fucks with your eyes and causes inconsistent deterioration of your vision… 

By now, you’ve stopped caring about or noticing where you’re going. The screeching of tires against pavement and the wail of a car horn abruptly end this nonchalant disconnect, however. A hand grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you aside.

“You weren’t kidding when you said Striders had bad luck in traffic…”

That voice… “John—?”

“Yeah. Stop walking into traffic, you idiot,” he responds. His voice fluctuates in a manner suggestive of a smile, albeit a slight one. “I woke up and I had no clue where you were, so I figured I might as well look for you…”

“‘Cause you’d feel guilty if anything happened to me?” you finish his sentence for him, aiming a critical glare in his general direction.

“Well, yeah…” he admits.

You, in return, allow yourself a brief moment of self-indulgent pride. “So I’m a left-over liability? I’m kind of an unwanted pet, right? You don’t really want me around, but you sure will feel like shit if anything terrible happens to me.”

John’s respondent sigh and the sound of rubber shoe soles scraping against the pavement are indicative of some nervous fidgeting.  “I guess you could say that…”

“S’pose I could, too,” you reply with a shrug. “Thanks for saving my ass from being road kill, though. Sorry I’m such a pain to keep around.”

“No, it’s not that…” he replies quietly. “It’s more that I just don’t get how you could still be stuck on me. I mean, it’s been _years_ , Dave. It’s not just a few, either…”

At this point, you can’t help but laugh. “Says the guy who spent his childhood pulling the most idiotic pranks on everyone he could. I don’t see how you’ve managed to change this much, dude.”

“You… What do you mean?”

“What’d I mean? Dude, you’re fucking kidding me,” you reply with an edge of bitter sarcasm. “What ever happened to that kidd with a shitty grin and the idea of growing up to be a toy designer or joke shop owner?”

“I— I really don’t—” By his voice alone, you can tell that you’re confusing him. At the very least, you’re unnerving him.

You respond with another snort of disdainful laughter. “Of course you don’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You can tell he’s folding his arms by the sound of rustling fabric.

“Figure it out yourself,” is your succinct response. To you, it makes perfect sense; to him, however, you know it’s impossibly enigmatic. And that’s exactly how you want it. You want him to have to take a minute out of his apparently busy life and actually _think_ about something. You want him to notice the fact that he’s managed to lose sight of everything he used to be.

“I— Dammit, Dave…! You’re impossible—!”

You cut him off there, ignoring his further commentary as you breathe forth another plume of smoke. A smirk spreads across your face for a brief moment, though you quickly hide it. With a nudge from your thumb, the cigarette’s ashes tumble to the ground. Then, you walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a plot and then it ran away...


	7. Chapter 7

**Your name is John Egbert.**

You have no idea what’s happening. All you know is that you got rid of him four days ago and somehow, the bastard’s back. This time, he’s calling you. Not from a payphone, though—oh, no, that would make things far too simple. No, he’s calling you from the goddamned police station.

“John?” you can hear his voice wavering hesitantly.

“It’s midnight, dude. What the hell do you want?” you reply tersely.

The silence on the other end is broken only by the sounds of hoarse breathing for a few minutes. Then, he speaks. “Well… See, it’s a long, long story. And I’d love to tell it all right now, but I’d rather not waste your time. So, I guess I should probably cut the shit. You happen to have $2500  just sitting around?”

“You expect me to pay for your stupidity?” you retort quickly, rolling your eyes as you do so. “If you want to know, I have that much; but, it’s all for food. Unlike you, I don’t illegally _steal_ my food. I actually work for it. You know, like a _responsible_ citizen?”

A snort of self-deprecating laughter greets your commentary. “Yeah, and I only take enough to survive. You wanna’ try convincing people to let you have a job while you’re me? Yeah, I don’t think you’d last too long.”

“You’re ignoring the topic, asshole,” you reply boredly. “It _is_ midnight, and I’m sleepy. So just tell me what you want so I can just go back to bed.”

“If you pay the cash, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how but I promise I will. C’mon, dude…” He pauses and, after another silent minute or two, finally completes his statement. “You’re the last person I know of who’ll even briefly consider lifting a finger to help me out. Please…?”

You really want to turn him down. You know he’s there for theft—albeit minor—and you know he’s undoubtedly guilty. Even he’ll admit to being as guilty as a dog with its head in a ripped bag of treats. The key word is “want”, though. You _want_ to say no; but, for some stupid reason, you can’t. You can only stare blankly at your most recent pay-check, which is set forth on your dining room table, and chew on your lip.

“Fine.” You eventually capitulate to the forces of former commitment and guilt. He had been so eager to see you again, and you’d kicked him to the curb. You stood by and watched as his entire world—his brother’s guitar and its case—was forcibly seized from him. As he was beaten up purely for the offenders’ twisted entertainment. You made a shitty attempt to help, took him home, and let him go without so much as looking around the house when he was gone that morning. There has to be some way to make it up to him, you figure. Sure, you don’t want to see him again; but, you still feel like shit (deep down) for your treatment of him.

“Really?” his formerly disheartened voice picks up, lit by a sudden burst of hope. “You’re the best, dude. Really, you are. I promise I won’t fuck this up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismissively growl. “I’ll bring the money up in the morning and you’d better have a way to pay me back for this when you’re out.”

“I promise, I will,” Dave responds hopefully.

“Awesome, now let me sleep and shut up,” you grumble. With a resounding _clack_ , you slam your admittedly old-fashioned home handset back on its equally novel receiver.

* * *

After filling out paperwork for at least an hour, handing over your entire pay-check, and wasting no less than two hours paying off fines and settling legal issues for some asshole from your past, you’re finally allowed to leave. The timing of the event forces you to miss a day of work _and_ a rather important lecture for school.

The fact that it’s all because of _him_ doesn’t help much, either. Actually, it kind of makes it worse. His profuse apologising and obsessive thanking does nothing but stand on your last nerve. That stupid grin, which always seems to be on his face when he’s around you, only makes you want to give him a bloody nose for his outrageous stupidity.

He was the smart one, after all.

He was far smarter than you. You’ve always known that. He maintained good grades without trying, had every girl you knew of fawning over him, and was altogether upstanding. He maintained his life, hobbies, and school-work at a perfect equilibrium with absolutely no effort. For him, everything fell into place. His brains helped him figure out some problems, while his pure (and, at times, bull-headed) mettle permitted him with the ability to power through every other obstacle.

At school, you were always an average student. You still are. As hard as you try, you can never really maintain above a ‘B’ for too long. Dave, however… Dave could go on with straight A’s all year.

He had all the potential in the world—potential you’ve worked hard to earn—and he threw it away for some stupid childhood memory. He threw all his promise away for you—something that enrages you more than it flatters. In your opinion, he’s little more than a wishful waste of former aptitude.

Your general disdain for him is less your resentment towards his lost potential and more a final nail in your coffin of individuality, though. You’d thought that you could get away from him, but you’ve only come full circle. Everything you’ve ever done—the gains you’ve made and the friends you’ve earned—is about to cave in on you. It’s all about to be overshadowed by _him_.

He’s already managed to befriend several of the jailers with that stupid charm he has. His silver tongue has always won him friends and supporters, and its ability obviously hasn’t diminished with age.

But it won’t work on you.

Nothing he says will get to you. You’ve determined that. He can’t possibly say something compelling enough to convince you to let him back into your life. He’s nothing but a trouble maker with a nice face and a way with words, after all…

Still…

The way his odd, cloudy eyes shine in the light—reflecting the sun like a bright orb of youthful energy—captivates your attention. How he works—his odd habit of rummaging through his pockets, even when he knows there’s nothing in them—is strikingly familiar. He’s the same as he was then, for the most part. And you, the former king of stupid pranks and childish innocence, have become a barely recognisable husk of your former self.

Even as you drive home, you can’t take your mind off of those facts. Off of him.

You’re in a trance of sorts. A sufficient amount of attention is devoted to driving, and the rest is invested in this cyclical thought process.

You begin thinking about his ruined potential, which leads to pondering his retention of childish wonder. The thoughts blend into those pertaining to your own change and, from there, loop right back to the beginning.

For the entire ride, you continue in this manner. Your thoughts repeat in an endless loop of warped logic. Silence reigns effortlessly between you and him. Neither of you say a word. You remain in your world, and he stays in his. It’s how you like it. You’re not sure about him; but, _you_ like it this way.


	8. Chapter 8

“John…?”

A voice stirs you from your sleep, though you respond by shoving the source away.

“John…?”

The voice pipes up once more, forcing you to reluctantly turn on the light. You look towards the source, fully expecting to see the familiar, pale face. You expect to be stared down by his cloudy, wandering eyes. But, you’re not.

Instead, you’re greeted by his younger self—the seven-year-old you’d left in Texas.

 “Dave?” you respond hesitantly.

The younger Dave smirks, raises a brow, and speaks once again. His voice, however, is the undoubtedly gravelly voice of the Dave you know now. Yet, at the same time, this deeper voice comes from the bright-eyed kid in front of you.

You feel as if you sould question the occurrence, but something compels you to do otherwise. Instead, you continue speaking to the bizarre entity before you. “Who the hell are you?” you respond boldly.

The smirk grows, and his striking red eyes turn towards you. “Well, you’ve already said it. I’m Dave. Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to be older?” you respond with a mix between a question and a statement.

“Age and maturity aren’t the same thing, you know,” the child point out.

The statement forces you to pause for a moment, though you quickly recover your conversational balance. “Well, obviously not in your case.”

“Oh yeah…” As the child responds with a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle, he grows. He rapidly morphs in front of you, finally stopping in his present form. For once, his amaurotic gaze meets yours and, to be prefectly honest, it’s downright frightening. “I’m supposed to be throwing you away like you’re throwing me away.”

“I— No! What do you mean by that?” you respond in shock.

Another acrid snort of laughter precedes his retort. “So you’re saying that you’re _not_ throwing me away? You’re saying that all this leaving me to do my own thing without so much as coming to check in on me is perfectly normal? Yeah, I can totally get that.”

“Well, if you keep on being a sarcastic ass—”

He interrupts you. “I only trusted you enough to come to you for help. I only had enough faith in you to leave Texas and come searching for you.”

At this point, he’s starting to get on your nerves. An unknown force compels you to confront him with a sharp reply. “You came here to ruin everything. I’ve finally made a name for myself, and you want to take it!” you spit back.

He opens his mouth to respond; but, before he can, the world around you crumbles, only to be replaced by an eerily familiar scene—your old school in Texas. You find yourself standing face-to-face with a version of Dave who, by appearance, is about three or four years younger than the one you know. He doesn’t seem to notice you, though you notice him, as he stares in disbelief at someone you somehow recognise as one of the school administrators.

His hand is wrapped tightly around his old cane as, with a slow nod, he responds to whatever had just been said. He goes paler than usual—an occurrence you’d never think possible—and chews on his lip.

Before he moves onwards, you observe him.

By now, his eyes have acquired the haze they have today. However, he doesn’t seem as confident as he is now. He handles the cane like a weedwhacker and stumbles forward, seemingly without taking into consideration any information the cane provides him. Still, he manages to get through the doorway after a few times. His shades sit atop his head, nestled amongst his striking white hair, like a raven in the middle of a snowy yard.

Without really moving, you follow him. Well, kind of. You try to follow him, only to have the world melt away around you. The streaks of mollified semi-reality mix like paint on a painter’s palette. The brown hues of the school office fade to a collection of sepulchral greys and tenebrous blues.

 _Click_. The sound draws your eyes to a wall of square drawers just as a covered body is rolled out. Dave steps forward, struggling to contain the tears, as one of the morticians slides forth a cloth-covered corpse.

“So is that—?”

The mortician’s statement is cut off as Dave runs his fingers along the edges of the stupid shades his brother always wore. Blood drips from the ends of his fingers, flowing from wounds created by running his fingers across the jagged, broken edges. He doesn’t seem to care, though.

“If these things really did come off him, then I’ll have to say it is…” Dave responds quietly. As he says this, tears begin to run down his cheeks. His eyes are hidden behind his shades, though you can still imagine the tears—as they form into small droplets of salty tears and fall from his clouded eyes.

Out of a combination of the overpowering, mysterious urge and a sense of morbid fascination, you creep towards the table. You strain to look over the sheet and see the face beneath it. Just as you do so, however, the world abruptly disappears.

You find yourself back in your bed, dazed and confused.

What had you just witnessed? Certainly, it was all a figment of your imagination. There was no possible way you could have…

How could you have known…?

No. You threw that note away. You didn’t just throw it away. You burned it. You burned it, assuming that it was another of Dave’s attempts to get you to notice him again. Now, though, you’re having your doubts.

You stumble from your bed. You make your way to the dresser and proceed to dig through the drawers and, after only a few seconds of searching. pull forth the note, only to have it burst into spontaneous flame. As you let go, the world comes to another abrupt halt. As reality and incorporeal unreality blend into an indiscernible haze, you hear him laughing. A sensation akin to falling down an unending well overcomes you before you suddenly wake up. This time, you notice him sitting in the chair across from it.

“What the—? How did you get into my room!? _Why_ are you _in_ my room!?” you despondently mutter.

He, in turn, replies with a simple shrug. “You were making a hell of a noise in here, so I came to make sure there wasn’t some weird shit going down.”

Still reeling from the shock of the dream—or, more appropriately, nightmare—you can only continue yelling at him. “Well I’m fine! Get out of my room!”

“Whatever, dude,” he responds quietly. “I was leaving, anyhow.”

His statement snaps you back to reality, forcing you to take a minute to reconsider your words. “Wait… No… I didn’t mean for you to leave…” You chew on your lip, trying to think of what to say.

‘I just dreamt about you’ would sound too creepy.

And you don’t want to bring up a sore topic. At least, not right now.

“No,” you finally settle on the response, “Just go back to bed. I’m fine.”

To this statement, he comes back with a less-than-convinced-but-still-somewhat-satisfied smile. “If you say so.” He shrugs, grabs his cane, and wanders out of the room, leaving you to stew in your own confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is where things hopefully start to get intresting. remind me to stop listening to acid rock while i write. it results in this brain shit.


	9. Chapter 9

_“I hate a moral coward, one who lacks a manly spark,  
_ _I just detest a man afraid to go home in the dark…”_

Your radio alarm screams in your ear like the sound of a multitude of nails scraping against chalkboards.

_“I always spend my evening where there’s women, wine and song  
_ _But like a man I always bring my little wife along…”_

You blindly slam the alarm button until the damned hunk of plastic and metal shuts up. Then, you roll from your bed and get dressed. You fix yourself some toast, sit down before the television, and turn on the news.

“A homeless man from Texas was killed in an accident early this morning…”

The words cause your heart to skip a beat. You stare blankly at the television screen, completely unaware of everything else.

“… Sources report that the man was attempting to cross a road when he was struck by an SUV. He sustained serious injuries and was rushed to…”

No. This isn’t happening. He can’t het into your head like this…

“…medical centre, where he died around one in the morning. His identity is currently unknown, and anyone with information is asked to call local officials. The man had no form of identification aside from this photo…”

The image appears, and you find yourself eye-to-eye with him. Once again, he’s staring straight at you. Your stomach churns. No…

This isn’t happening.

You turn off the television and rush upstairs. Upon throwing open the door to Dave’s room, however, you find no evidence of his existence. The sheets are all in the same place they were when you made them last. Not a single pillow nor carpet thread is out of place.

“Dave!” you yell. “Stop screwing with me! This isn’t funny!” With ever passing second, you grow more and more disconsolate. “Dave!”

No response comes to you. Only the silence of your home greets you.

“You’re not fooling me, Dave! This stupid trick isn’t funny. And it’s not fooling me!” you continue. “I’ll prove it to you, Dave! I’ll prove this is just some stupid joke!”

With this said, you rush outside. There, you find crime scene tape blocking off the road in front of your house. A broken cane rests on the ground. Blood smears the pavement, dots the sidewalk, and decorates the drain cover. A trifold wallet rests near your feet.

The world spins under the weight of paradoxical impossibility, and you fall to your knees. No… You can’t let him do this to you. You’ve made it so far without his stupid reputation and overbearing presence. Why does he do this now!?

You turn around to go back inside, only to find your doorway covered in smears of blood and, for a brief moment, hear him in the back of your mind. You can hear him calling for help. Picture him knocking desperately against your door.

“John! Please? John!?” His voice loops endlessly in your head, growing weaker with each passing minute. Eventually, the noise deteriorates to a despondent groaning—fades to muffled sobs—and disappears entirely. He recognises that you’re not coming for him and, with no other option, he attempts to drag himself back into the street. However, he doesn’t make it very far. He collapses on the sidewalk.

As if to further re-enforce this idea, you see the bloodstain at your feet. The dried pool of blood…

No…

You’ve made it so far…

“John?”

You turn around, only to find yourself staring at _him_.

He seems as real as the gory mess sprawled out before you, yet something about him isn’t right. He’s just as fake as he is real. You know he’s a figment of your rapidly decaying sanity, but your senses indicate otherwise.

“So… Looks like you got what you wanted, dude.” An aberrant grin spreads across his face. “You wanted me to fuck off, right? Well, you got it.”

 _“No…”_ You want to say to him, _“I only wanted you to let me have my own life. I wanted you to have your own life. I never meant for it to end like this…”_

Before you can respond, however, the figure disappears. The apparition fades like smoke, and you’re left alone. You’re left alone, confused, and standing in a pool of your former friend’s dried blood.

 _“Some people like to keep the same friends around them. Others enjoy life’s constant change, and often leave behind their former friends.”_ His voice echoes in the back of your mind, like a faint memory. _“It’s not wrong either way. You do whatever the fuck you want, dude; it’s your life. I’m just saying—there are two types of people. I’m one; you’re the other…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is why i need to stop listening to acid rock and/or similarly freaky music when i write. the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, feedback, ~~and sacrificial offerings~~ welcome via comments or my tumblr or whatever. 'Kay? 'Kay. Good? Yeah. I think we've got this shit handled.


End file.
